


The Thing About Dean

by poisontaster



Series: Heart 'Verse [17]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Claiming, Future Fic, Insecurity, M/M, Permanent Injury, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-06
Updated: 2006-06-06
Packaged: 2018-05-14 20:17:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,355
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5756827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/poisontaster/pseuds/poisontaster
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Year 9/10.  Dean's scars go deep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Thing About Dean

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before there was a character named "Ellen" on the show, so this Ellen is not that Ellen.

The thing about Dean is that he has a million and one escape routes, a million and one ways to run, and a million and one stupid fucking Dean-esque rationalizations to make them sound reasonable. Logical, even.

Sam has some choice words on the topic of Dean's so-called logic.

It's not just that Sam's horny, although there _is_ that. You…get used to certain things, and isn't _that_ a head-bending notion? You get used to fucking your brother, or having him fuck you. You miss it. Because it's _gone_ , just like Dean is, even though he's physically present and you can see him every moment of every day.

Sam has even more to say on _that_ subject.

But mostly, it is that sense of _absence_ ; that Dean is here and not-here. That Dean is withdrawn into himself, leaving Sam—his brother, his lover, his _partner_ —helpless and frustrated on the outside, beating against walls that go for miles.

And they're _really_ going to talk about that one, because _Christ_ , enough is enough.

Sam wonders how often he's said those words, those _exact_ words in relation to Dean. _Enough is enough_. He wonders how many more he will.

The answer to that is: _As many as it takes_. Because Sam's a stubborn bastard too.

***

The thing about Dean is that you can't just walk up on him and say "Let's talk."

That's a straight route into Defensive Fucker, USA. Or sometimes Sarcastic Bastardville. And for as much as Sam would like to stop playing Dean's reindeer games, if Dean pokes him long enough or hard enough (oh, shut up, he _said_ he was horny) Sam's going to respond. He's going to blow up and get sidetracked and quite possibly say some dumbass things of his own that will sink into Dean's heart like a new set of scars. Which is exactly what Sam's trying to avoid.

So any serious conversation with Dean requires prior planning and a lot of patience.

Which is when Sam is very glad for his pre-law training. Arguing with Dean is very like being the helpless and overworked DA against the sleaziest defense lawyer in the biz. Because when it comes to actually admitting what he feels, Dean would much rather play dirty. Evidence has to be presented without any possibility of reasonable doubt.

Which in that sense is not hard for Sam, because _he_ believes beyond any reasonable doubt, and he's always been good at talking people into things.

Even Dean.

***

The thing about Dean is that he's a vain, vain bastard, whether he wants to admit it or not. Not that his doesn't also overlay an insecurity massive as a national monument, bigger and wider than the Grand Canyon. But Dean takes pride in his looks in a no-nonsense Dean-onic way. He takes pride in his skills as a hunter.

Sam understands this. There's been little enough in both their lives in which they _could_ take pride. And Dean is ridiculously pretty and he's an amazing fucking hunter. Dean doesn't like it when he says it, but Dean is actually better than their dad ever was. Sometimes Sam wants to kick John for that; for looming so large in both their minds that they may never quite step out of his shadow.

But that's the point. Dean _is_ ridiculously pretty and an amazing hunter. But somewhere after all the injuries and the constant pain and the agony of physical therapy, _is_ crossed over into _was_ in Dean's mind and now he doesn't think he even has that.

Without his pride, all that's left is that gaping chasm of insecurity that Dean's been so frantically trying to cover with his own body his whole life.

Like Sam didn’t always know it was there.

***

The thing about Dean is that he hears what he wants to hear, and to hell with the rest.

So when Sam says, "C'mon Dean, ease down; you're pushing yourself too hard," what Dean hears is, _You're weak. Weak and useless. And I'm leaving your ugly ass._

When Sam says, "Come to bed, you're tired," Dean hears _You've lost it. You're old and you'll never be good for anything again. I don't know why you even try. And I'm leaving you._

Sam tells him, "Hey. You wanna?" and Dean hears, _I'm only fucking you out of pity. Because you're convenient. Because you're here. I don't really want someone so obviously fucked up. And as soon as you're better, as soon as I can, I'm out of here._

Are you picking up what Dean's laying down? Because Sam is. Loud and clear. Sam knows thousands of words, can combine them in millions of different ways, but to Dean, they're all the same thing.

_I don't want you. Nobody wants you. And you'll die alone._

Which is just… Gah. Fucking _Dean._

So now Sam's going to try it Dean's way.

***

The thing about Dean is that anything he sets his mind to, he's good at.

Sam's not sure how much Dean knows that about himself, but it's true. Shooting. Hunting. Tracking.

Lying. Running. Hiding.

Especially those last three.

There's a straight-backed chair in the corner of their bedroom. Sam sits in it, tapping his fingers on the arms, one leg jittering up and down as he waits. Dean is nothing if not the spirit of perversity; he's already been in the shower twice as long as usual and Sam's feeling paranoid that he knows. Not that he can see anyway Dean _could_ know, but sometimes Dean has an animal instinct about these things.

But then the tired and rusty run of the shower cuts off and Sam inhales sharply. This has to work. They can't keep going on like this. Life with Dean has always required tenacity. He knows that. He accepts that. But he has his pride. And his balls. And…and Dean already left him once. Three times, if you count the almost-dying ( _Dying counts, Sam_ ). Any of them almost broke him and he still feels so weak, so punch-drunk and dizzy. He's not trenched in, if this should turn to war.

So when Dean comes in through the door, Sam doesn't let himself think, he just launches himself at him. This is going to hurt Dean, he knows. But if he can float this message on a tide of pain—which sometimes seems to be the only damn thing Dean _gets_ —then it will be worth it. He shoves Dean back against the door and Dean grunts, going white and his bad leg buckling. His towel drops to the floor. Sam fists his hands in Dean's shirt, holding him upright, supporting him.

"Sam…?" Dean gasps, but Sam can't answer, his heart in his throat. He plants his hand against Dean's sternum and slides down to his knees. "Sam, what the fuck?" He sounds breathless and confused and Sam suspects Dean will need both the Vicodin he left on the bed side table.

"Shut up," Sam mutters. "I'm tired of talking at you. Just…"

There's a tap on the door. "Dean?" It's Ellen; not that it could really be anyone else. "You boys all right in there?"

Sam looks up at Dean, fingers hooked into the waistband of Dean's briefs. His thumb brushes light feathery arcs over Dean's lower belly, just above the cloth.

"Y-Yeah," Dean answers, and would Ellen really notice if Dean's voice is pitched just a little higher than normal? "I just tripped. I'm okay."

Ellen taps the door a couple times. "Oh, Dean," she sighs. "Sometimes I wonder if you remember you're just out of the hospital. Well. You go on and get some sleep."

Sam tugs, gentle but persistent, at Dean's underwear, sliding them down Dean's legs. "Yes ma'am," Dean says, his voice wobbling over the syllables. His eye never leave Sam's, wondering and sort of afraid.

"Jesus, Sammy," he whispers, once Ellen's steps have faded down the hall, "You wanted to suck my dick, all you had to do was say so."

Sam scowls at him. "This isn't about your dick, asshole."

Dean tilts his head. "Then what?"

Sam lowers his head and swipes his tongue over the ugly purple ridges and hollows of Dean's scars. Dean shudders, heels to crown and his head tips back to thump into the door again. Sam smiles and looks up at Dean. "Unless you want Ellen to come back, you might want to be more quiet," he says, wrapping both his hands around Dean's thigh, framing the mess of scars between his thumbs.

Dean swallows hard. "Sam—"

"Shhh," Sam cautions and then bends again to nuzzle carefully across Dean's broken skin. The skin is always a little hotter here, which Sam tries to convince himself is a sign it's healing. This close to Dean's groin, he can smell the musky aroma of Dean himself, muted by his recent shower. His pubic hair, the hairs on his leg, are still slightly damp. Sam closes his eyes and glides the tip of his nose up Dean's thigh, following it with soft brushes of his lips.

Dean's shaking, his hands fisted at his sides and Sam can almost _taste_ his unwillingness in the salt-wet texture of his skin.

 _Oh God,_ Sam thinks, his fingertips tightening. _This has to work. It just has to._

*** 

The thing about Dean is that he's far more fragile than he appears.

More than the damaged flesh of his leg, more than the loss of his eye, Dean's been hurt. The kind of wounds you have to use words like _grievously, gravely, irreparably_. Sam would say _mortally_ , but the truth is that Dean is just too cuss-stubborn to die. He just picks up all the pieces, shoves them in some semblance of order and goes on like nothing ever happened.

Sam knows, not because he sleeps with Dean, not because he's his brother, but because he's the one who inflicted some of those wounds. And while he thinks—hopes—Dean has forgiven him (as he's forgiven Dean for those injuries inflicted likewise), Dean never forgets.

Sam can't think about all that. He can't dwell on the possibility of failure. There's only room for one of them to break down at a time, and this, clearly, is Dean's turn. So Sam takes a breath, pushes Dean back a little more firmly against the door and applies himself.

With his tongue, his mouth, his hands and his breath, he makes love to—worships—Dean's scar, memorizing the dips and hollows, its contours and ridges, the gradations of heat and texture—from rough to smooth and back—demonstrating what Dean will never, ever, allow him to put into words.

Dean's shuddering gets worse, his breath runs hoarse, catching and breaking, and sweat breaks out across his skin. Blood fills his cock, lifting it away from his body, and Sam moves one of his hands to feather lightly over the soft full sacs of Dean's balls, the taut skin underneath, rub around the base of his dick.

Dean groans softly and against Sam's fingertips he swells harder.

"Dean," he whispers finally and looks up. Dean's eye is still on him and Sam doesn't think it's been anywhere else this whole time. He's not crying, but his eyes gleam like there's a film over them and his expression… God, Dean just looks split wide open. Sam gets to his feet, his knees and other assorted injuries of his own aching dully. He puts his arm around Dean's waist and pulls Dean into him. Dean doesn't fight him, dazed limp, and Sam has to bend a little to put his head on Dean's shoulder, to put his face against Dean's neck the way he does when they sleep. Bent, he can align their cocks with his other hand, bringing them together and stroking slow.

"Sammy…" Dean mouths it against Sam's collarbone. His hips are rocking into Sam's grip now.

"Yeah," Sam answers. "M'right here, Dean." His thumb makes circles, teasing Dean's slit, soft and wet.

"I… I'm okay, you know." The words are rushed, mumbled, like Dean's ashamed of them. And really, knowing Dean? He probably is.

"I know."

"You don't…" Dean's teeth shut over a moan and he thrusts hard, Sam's cue to go faster, harder. "You don't have to…"

"I want to," Sam says, breathless himself with the slide of Dean against him. He tongues against Dean's throat, bites down. "I always want to, Dean."

Dean spurts into Sam's hand with a soft and hurting little cry, scalding slick warmth over Sam's fingers, his belly, his cock. Dean's hands have found Sam's shoulders and his short fingernails dig into Sam's skin. Sam hisses, and then he's pulsing and coming, tidal waves of clenching pleasure and it's Dean's turn to hold him up, leaning them both back against the door.

"Sam…Sammy…" He comes back with Dean's voice in his ear, husking and deep. "I gotta… I gotta lie down. My…my leg…"

"Yeah." Sam slides his arm around Dean's waist, puts his shoulder under Dean's and Dean lets him. "C'mon; I got your pills."

He gets Dean settled in the bed, cleans them both with Dean's discarded towel. He ends with a quick wet brush of his mouth over Dean's prick and even spent, it gives a tiny satisfying twitch. Dean takes the Vicodin under protest, sleepy-growly and sated. When Sam slips in next to him, carefully wrapping his body around Dean's, Dean's arm goes around him.

"I'm not going anywhere," Sam tells him, the movement of his lips against Dean's neck making Dean shiver a little.

The arm under Sam curves a bit to trace a line down the sensitive skin of Sam's back, deliberate, intimate, tingling through Sam's nerve endings and spine. Sam bites down on his gasp. "I know," Dean answers finally and Sam's breath goes out of him like an exhalation that he didn't know he was holding.

 _Dean,_ he thinks, and closes his eyes.

The thing about Dean is that Sam loves him— _loves him_ , like he's only ever loved one person—and some days—most days—that's enough for both of them.


End file.
